


show no mercy, knife to gun

by juryrouge



Series: an unkindness [1]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Angst and Humor, Canon Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Falbarry, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:41:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21978250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juryrouge/pseuds/juryrouge
Summary: There were few sounds as sweet as the ones Barry's knife made.
Relationships: Barry the Chopper/Vato Falman
Series: an unkindness [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1582072
Comments: 20
Kudos: 32





	show no mercy, knife to gun

**Author's Note:**

> yes, i did this. i will walk down to hell with pride in my eyes. rated m for barry murdering people.
> 
> -jury

_Chop. Chop. Chop._

There wasn’t a single sound that was sweeter than the sharp cut of a knife. The music circled around Barry, a beautiful melody of harsh staccatos with his high trills of laughter. There was no other sound like this. Nothing that could drive him this insane -- this wonderful insanity. 

His cuts were clean and Barry made sure to polish the knife after each use. He was a butcher, one who was damn good at his job. Every slab of meat was even. Each knife and cleaver and saw sharpened to perfection. The knives dangled behind him on the wall furthest from the customers. When someone walked in, and the sunlight danced through the edge of the door, the metal would glisten. If Barry could see music, that’s what it would look like. 

Barry began to cut a new slab of meat. He had an order due for three sharp.

_Chop. Chop. Chop. Ch-_

It was a good piece of meat. Its juices soaked through the board. The smell was so good. And the cut of the knife was so good -- like cutting through butter. It was such a tender piece of meat. The knife was always good, but Barry’s favorite chopping instrument had to be his cleaver. He left it in the back away from prying eyes. And when he needed to use it, Barry held it with adoration. The handle was smooth and it felt kind in his hand; the metal was brighter than any of his knives. 

Barry wondered what it would be like to chop things that moved. 

There was a ring and a customer walked in. The bell’s jingling slowly fell silent as the customer approached the meats on display. Barry cleaned the knife and set it down beside his board before heading to the front of the shop. The customer, an older woman whose wig sat precariously on her head, began regaling him with the details of a party she was holding. It would be the best in the city, she said, and there would even be a brigadier general in attendance. 

As she droned on and on and on, Barry wanted nothing more than to shut her up. “So what sort of meat would you like?” Barry asked, more annoyed than usual, for the third time. Finally the woman told him her list, but her talking didn’t stop there. 

No one was chopping anything -- Barry certainly wasn’t chopping -- but _this sound_ slowly played in his ears. He could hear the music as the woman’s empty words faded, and oh, it sounded beautiful. Barry looked at his customer again. Her eyes were a deep blue and her skin was wrinkled, especially around her lips. The clothes she was wearing looked expensive, a bright green that Barry found displeasing to the eyes. He thought she would look much better in red, but the clothes did match the jewels wrapped around her throat. 

He would bet her meat was tender. So, so tender. How hard would it be to slash her with his knife? Or chop her up with his cleaver? She wouldn’t fall apart like butter and the blood would get everywhere. Barry loved that deep, deep red. 

Her body would twitch. Her eyes would fill with agony. Her breaths would fall silent. And her body would be in tiny, little pieces. 

Time passed. The sun sank below the horizon. Everything blurred. Barry had a hard time remembering how the rest of their conversation went -- remembering the rest of the day honestly. The same sweet music continued into the night. 

There was one day after another. And then it was weeks -- but not a month. 

Barry could still hear that sound. It was burning in his ears as it followed him through the alleyway. The sharp beat fell in time with his footsteps, thrumming and rising and falling. 

The darkness continued to grow; it enveloped the streets till everything choked. A man was walking. He was so close and he was coming closer. His steps were heavy and his breathing was calm. He swung the briefcase in his hand as he moved. Barry could just about make out his face. He bega-

_Chopchopchopchopchopchopchopchop._

The cleaver was heavy in his hands. It got stuck when it hit bone. Each chop became more imprecise and sluggish. Blood painted the alley, splattering on his clothes and the walls. 

There was a limb or two on the ground. 

Barry’s breath came out in short gasps and his arm ached with the effort of it all and his heart was beating so, so hard. It pounded in his chest, thumping at his ribs. The man below him wasn’t moving. 

“I didn’t realize it took so much effort to chop a man to death,” Barry said to himself, each word harsh between his panting. The man’s body was all uneven -- not as good as his work at the shop. The severed pieces looked mangled; his left arm was especially jagged. Barry took out a white cloth he kept in his pocket, cleaning off the cleaver with a nice finish. 

He needed to take a shower. His first chop wasn’t the best, Barry thought as he walked back into the night, but he had time to improve himself. 

Barry went back to work. Day in and day out, he sharpened his knives and he cut each slab of meat with delicate precision. The sound of the knife -- the real sound, not the one in his head -- wasn’t the same anymore. It sounded too light. Too delicate. Dulled. No matter how much Barry sharpened, the new sound was here to stay. He could still hear it in his head. When was the last time he had heard it in real life?

Ah yes, it was…

Barry walked into the backroom and picked up his most favored cleaver.

Soon, night fell. A woman was walking alone -- she looked pretty. Barry could hear the click of her heels and her perfume smelled like flowers. Her body was slim and her silhouette stood out in streetlight. It would only be moments until she headed to the darkness of the next corner. The woman moved and Barry began to step out of his hiding spot. 

_Chop. Chop. Chop. Chopchopchopchop…_

The next time it’s a young man. 

_Chop. Chop._

And then it’s two women laughing at the street corner. 

_Chop. Chop. Chop._

The one after was wearing a suit.

_Chop. Chop. Chop. Chop. Chop._

Then the next one screamed so deliciously.

_Chop. Chop. CHOP. CHOP._

His swings become precise. Each limb cut off more evenly. Blood filled the air. 

_CHOP. CHOP. CHOP. CHOP. CHOP._

The most beautiful music of all.

_CHOPCHOPCHOPCHOPCHOPCHOPCHOPCHOP-_

The cleaver clattered to the sidewalk and suddenly, the military police were upon him. Blue and gold filled Barry’s vision, drowning out the red, sending him spiraling. There were cuffs around his hands and his legs felt paper-thin. Barry could taste ash in his throat. But the same music still remained and so did that wonderful insanity. There was shuffling and yelling and bargaining and hushed whispers and then there was the Fifth Laboratory. 

They severed Barry the Chopper in a way he could never do to any of his victims.

He felt this cold, aching emptiness. There was no pleasure, no pain. No warmth, no comfort. He didn’t need to sleep or eat or do anything humans needed to do. Barry’s soul clung to metal, trapped in armor, and his only company was his insanity. And that music. How amusing. Barry lost pieces of himself and his cracks at the edges became rips that couldn’t be mended. Almost everything was a blur. People screamed. He giggled. The researchers died. He laughed. They gave him back his cleaver. He cackled. The Elric brothers appeared. He almost choked on his uproarious snickering. 

Barry first heard the _boom_ of a gun when Maria Ross shot him in his gloved hand. The sound was penetrating and loud and it shook his armor; Barry thought it was obnoxious and his annoyance grew when she shot him again. 

He had the same experience with Riza Hawkeye later, but at least she looked hotter when she shot him. Repeatedly. And relentlessly. _Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom._

The next person to catch his eye was a man that went by the name of Vato Falman. Barry thought he was boring and particularly unremarkable; from the way he sat to the way he talked to the way he ate -- boring. Falman liked to do boring things like reading the newspaper and watching the birds outside.

“Watching me must be the only entertainment you get,” Barry chuckled as they played another game of chess. He wasn’t very good at the game and would often try to cheat when the other wasn’t looking. Barry moved the dark bishop. 

Falman sighed, his annoyance clear. Barry could see through it. “My job before babysitting you was entertaining enough for me.”

Barry thought back to the two others that interrogated him, forced him to tell them about the researchers and their philosopher’s stone. Falman was there too; he was boring, but he was wearing a nice sweater -- it looked cozy. “Oh yeah, working with that pussy and the pretty lady? I’m sure you have a lot of fun. Tell me about it. I get bored easy.” There wasn’t much in life when all Barry could hear was his music -- even that was fading. 

_“Did you just call Roy Mustang a pu-”_ Falman paused. “Never mind.”

He waited for Falman to make his move. “Oh, you know I’m right.”

Falman shook his head. “I have no opinion on this.” He hid his head in his hands, probably out of embarrassment. Falman did that sometimes, Barry noticed. It was fun to press the man’s buttons. 

“Then what’s your opinion on me?” Barry asked, trying to contain his laughter. “C’mon, admit that you love my company.” Besides Barry’s short rendezvous to break Ross out of jail, they had spent every moment together. 

The man finally decided to move his white pawn. The deliberation was taking far too long, but Barry didn’t say anything; if he pressed too hard, pushed too much, the fun would wither. After moving the chess piece, Falman rested his hand on the table. “I’m learning to tolerate it, I suppose.”

“Y’see! That means we’re practically married.”

Falman spluttered. _“That is not what that mea-”_

Barry the Chopper’s cackling rang through the room, high and giddy and all too insane. They kept playing chess and the day rolled on. Barry couldn’t remember the last time he had felt this comfortable. His time at the Fifth Laboratory had done something to his head -- broken something that wasn’t already broken. Barry never thought he could find contentedness anywhere beyond the chop of his cleaver. 

“Another round of chess?” Falman asked, setting up the pieces. His music was starting to fade to a hush -- a whimper.

Barry nodded. The metal of his armor clinked. 

Content was the right word.

The hours continued to pass and the sun danced across the sky. Then the beast struck. A man hanging off their window, growling with his eyes blown wide. He looked eerily familiar. The growling became louder and Barry couldn’t move his gaze.

_BANG._

Vato Falman shot his gun. The thing at their window started moving. Another man, smelling distinctly of smoke, appeared in the doorway. A dozen more shots pierced the air, but they didn’t matter to Barry. The fight continued on and there was only one sound that stuck in Barry’s head.

Barry the Chopper had found a symphony. A melody gifted to him by Falman. An insanity renewed in the most wonderful of ways. 

New music.


End file.
